Connor Cunningham was an exquisite specimen of a man, but even so, I wasn’t interested in him.
Or any man.
I hadn’t eventhoughtabout dating since my mom died last year. It was like one minute I’d been a fresh college graduate, carefree and ready to face the world, and the next I was living at home, taking care of my dad and worrying about things like insurance co-payments while trying to figure out what to make for dinner every night.
The idea of a relationship just sounded like too much trouble.
I wished I could call my mom and vent about it.
God, I need to stop thinking that every damn day.
“You’re an idiot if you let this go,” El said, looking down at her phone. “Because according to my research, that man is single.”
“Maybe you missed the wholecelebrity athletething here,” I reminded her. “His singlehood isn’t what’s keeping me from being his dream girl, dumbass. He is a rich and famous hot person and I will never be on his radar.”
“There was hella chemistry, though,” she said, shaking her head. “I felt it through the TV.”
“We gave each other shit; that was all it was. Aconversationis what you felt.”
“Well, it had more spark than what you had in your entire collective dating history, Duff.”
“Don’t start with that again,” I said, not wanting to listen to what I knew was coming.
“It’s the truth, though,” she said—as I knew she would. “Now that we’ve diagnosed your problem, we need to proactively seek to change your outcome.”
I sighed. “It’s not a disease.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
I wanted to argue, but she kind of wasn’t wrong about my issue. I’d never realized it until she gathered the data and laid out my case.
I, Duffy Distefano, had been friend-zoned by every man who’d taken me out since high school.
Literally.
Every. Single. One.
Something about me just screamed for my dates to ditch the romantic efforts and friend me up already. No matter how sexy or brilliant my meet-cutes might’ve been, a date or two later I always found myself listening to a guy telling me how awesome and fun I was.
HowlikedI was.
Only not inthatway.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “because regardless of my chronic problems, Connor Cunningham is not the guy for someone like me.”
4
Connor
“Connor, thanks for stopping by.”
“Of course,” I said, though I was a little unsure why I was there. Everyone seemed pleased with the way things had gone on the show the day before—Bethany sent three separate emails letting me know how happy they were—so the request to stop by the front office after practice was a little alarming.
“Have a seat,” Bethany said with a smile, gesturing toward one of the two guest chairs on the other side of her massive desk.
Bethany Henderson was the VP of publicity, but she was also the daughter of Stanley Henderson, the owner of the Coyotes, making her basically co-owner just without the title. She wasn’ttechnicallysomeone who could get rid of me, but she had the ears of those who could.
Which made her someone I very much wanted to keep happy.
